


134 Days

by allthebros



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Boys In Love, Cabin Fic, Clothed Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Reunions, Sentimental, Spring, Switching, and porn!, fluff!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23234173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebros/pseuds/allthebros
Summary: It's been a long winter without him.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 17
Kudos: 184





	134 Days

**Author's Note:**

> Writing's hard. Writing's hardest when it's been hard for so long you wonder if you ever knew how to do it in the first place. But here we are! I was sad and things are grim out there and writing quiet, soft cabin fics of my fave boys in love makes me feel better and I hope it makes you feel better too. <33
> 
> thanks to sorrylatenew for the beta and for being my friend. thanks also to everyone on twitter and tumblr who have been encouraging and supportive and pushy (looking at you S). It always means a lot.
> 
> (p.s. there are brief mentions of felching and ass-to-mouth kissing)

This early in the morning—and in the year—where the lake is at its narrowest, it’s possible to hear a car coming all the way from the other side. The noise travels easily, bounces across the dirt and gravel road winding up the hill, over placid waters and rocky incline, to the cabin there, nestled between tall pines and bare maples, and to Jonny’s ears where he stands on its deck, looking out at the landscape. 

A few hours after sunrise, the world still smells like winter. A biting freshness to the air that forced him to put on an extra layer of flannel and a beanie. There are still small patches of snow in the underbrush, but by midday he’ll be able to walk around in a thin shirt, the hardened mud around the cabin soft and squelching under his boots. 

The birds know this, already up and about for hours, chirping in the woods, flitting overhead and to the feeders Jonny installed last summer. Ice has melted off the lake, and it shimmers under the spring sun. It’s still too cold for swimming but he gives it only a few more weeks before he takes his first dive of the season. 

He watches these things and takes stock of them, one at a time. Sits in the moment of each for as long as he can. Makes himself stay put even as his stomach jumps with excitement, the noise of tires on packed dirt getting nearer. 

His coffee is warm between his hands, steam rising, and he breathes the smell of it deep, holds it in his lungs where eagerness builds and grows. A hungry yearning he sits in until he has to take a hot sip that burns his tongue to weaken it, make it manageable. A swallow alight on the railing by his hands and then takes flight almost immediately, and Jonny follows it with his eyes until he loses sight of it, counts to ten in his head afterwards. His body vibrates with anticipation, coiled tight, ready to snap.

God. He must have driven most of the night to be here this early.

It should feel like the whole world is holding its breath like he is. But it’s not. It keeps on moving in that slow waking way it has—its morning and spring ways—unaware of how he feels.

And in the middle of it all, Jonny waits. 

(Feet shifted, legs braced)

He waits for the car to get closer.

(Mug lowered to the railing)

Close as it can get.

(Deep breath)

Waits for the engine to cut off.

(Hands flattened against the wood)

For the sound of a car door slammed shut. 

And it’s like a gun going off before a race, because he’s moving. He’s turning, crossing the deck, back inside the cabin through the patio door and across the living room and entrance hall in large, quick strides. Front door opened, and it’s down the steps to the parked silver car and the man who drove it here.

Here. He’s here. 

He’s busy pulling his bag out from the backseat and Jonny grabs his arm, slams the door shut, duffel dropping on the ground with a muffled thud, and then he’s on him, pressing him against the car with his body, his whole weight, sick of any space between them. Absolutely sick with it.

“Jesus,” Patrick says with a startled, breathless laugh. “Fucking warn a guy,” and then, softer, with a hand coming up to brush strands of hair behind Jonny’s ear and a soft, quiet smile, “Hi, you.”

Jonny buries his face in his neck and it says something that Patrick doesn’t bitch about how cold it is against his warm skin, only wraps his arms around him, turns his head as much as he can to brush his lips across Jonny’s jaw.

“Hi,” Jonny says, muffled, and presses closer. 

*

He’s so full he might split. Feels like it, anyway. Stretched tight, bordering on too much even after getting opened up sloppy-wet on Patrick’s thick fingers. So slick with lube and spit, he can hear the squelching noise of it in between their harsh, panting breaths. 

“Did your dick get bigger?” he gasps, hands above his head to push against the wall, locked at the elbows and down his biceps so that he doesn’t brain himself, so that he can meet the rucking thrusts of Patrick’s hips instead. Rough and sharp, with barely any pull out, thighs slapping Jonny’s with the cracking sound of skin on skin, and rendering his core liquid hot the longer it goes on.

Patrick snorts above him, fingers dug into Jonny’s upper thighs to hold him up between his legs, to get his dick deep. Slaps against him again, and inside, a hard, thick slide that lights up Jonny’s spine with a shock, and punches a moan out of him. He leaks sticky onto his stomach, cock hard and bouncing in the tacky mess, legs high and spread and he’s so open—so fucking open—everywhere, all of him.

He still wants more. He wants everything. Wants to be so filled up he could burst. 

“It’s you,” Patrick says with a grunt. “It’s like fucking virgin territory down here.”

His face is in shadows, chin dipped low against his chest, his back to the wide angled window in the A-frame roof of the cabin, spilling thin Spring light all over the small loft. But Jonny doesn’t need to see it clearly to know the ugly-hot screwed up twist to it, the one Patrick gets when things are getting intense and his dick is getting wet exactly in that way he likes. Both of them threading that line where it feels like they could fuck like this forever, and come any second now from that feeling alone.

Patrick’s wide shoulders block the sun but when he fucks in, sinks further inside—all of Jonny tight around him and still opening up to take more—light spills over and blinds Jonny, limns Patrick in gold. Makes him shine like a fucking god descended upon earth exclusively to pound Jonny’s prostate just right, until he can’t think anymore.

“Feels like I’m gonna split on it,” Jonny admits, heat rolling in his gut, rising up in his face. Something he’ll be embarrassed by later on when he thinks about it. Something of the kind he only ever tells when they’re like this, and he’s got no defense in the face of this man he adores, who looks back at him and says,

“You’re not,” with a small laugh, turning his head to kiss Jonny’s shin—clumsy with the bumping of their bodies—and then lower, shivery, eyes heavy, “You’re perfect.”

Jonny’s heart skips and his chest tightens with violent affection. He tips his head back with his eyes closed. “I missed you,” he chokes, strangled enough he doesn’t know if Patrick hears him, the trailing end of it lost in a moan when Patrick rolls his hips forward as deep as he can go and yet asking to be let in deeper.

Everything smells like cedar and sex.

*

He lets Patrick sleep. 

The sky was overcast when he woke up, sun all but hidden behind rolling grey clouds announcing rain. He reached out to close the window over the bed, Patrick only a tuft of blond hair above the duvet, face under to hide from the light. The sight of it clenched at Jonny’s heart and he had the thought of slipping back under, of sliding along Patrick’s body and rubbing himself there until he’s hard and Jonny can take him inside again. Instead, he climbed down from the loft to make himself another cup of coffee, to let him sleep.

Now, he sits on the floor by the patio door in his underwear and a sweater, a second cup in hand. The door’s open a few inches, and he listens to the rain fall over the deck, over the bare wood of the trees outside a pitter-patter noise that soothes him. The air coming through is sweet and wet, smells of snowmelt and approaching warmth but still cool over his bare legs. He flexes his toes, watches goosebumps rise over his thighs. 

Jonny tips his head against the wall, takes a deep breath. When he shifts, he feels the lingering ache of Patrick inside him. Lets out a soft hiss between his teeth when he rolls his hips again, and again. The sharp little sparks it sends up his spine distract him a little from the urgency in his chest, a pressure that makes him want to climb back onto the loft and sit on Patrick’s dick again, or slide inside him, wake him up that way. Like somehow time is running out. Like he better take all he can before it’s gone. 

It always feels this way when they’re apart, even for a little while. 

It used to terrify him.

Rationally, he knows Patrick’s not going anywhere. But he’s constantly overwhelmed with a wave of relief, a ‘thank god nothing happened to either of us while you were far from me’ sort of release once they’re together again. Thank god I get to see you again.

That, too, used to be terrifying. It still is, he’s just become okay with being scared of losing him because it means he gets to have him too. As Patrick would say, “That’s growth, baby.”

“Christ,” he murmurs, and runs his hand over his face, takes a gulp of his rapidly cooling coffee, and tries to get the choking mix of relief-longing-yearning-happiness inside him in some kind of order. 

It’s been a long winter.

“This can’t be comfortable.”

Jonny’s eyes snap open, startled. Patrick twists his mouth in apology as he finishes climbing down from the loft. He’s put on sweats (Jonny’s) and a hoodie, but his feet are bare over the hardwood floor and they pad softly, barely noticeable over the sound of the rain. 

His hair—dirty from a night of travelling and Jonny’s fingers—sticks out in an adorable, boyish way, his eyelids hang heavy with sleep, dark circles under his eyes. His face is soft and tired and everything Jonny loves.

Patrick leans against the back of the couch, legs crossed at the ankles and arms crossed, too, over his chest. The hoodie is bulky but even so, Jonny can see the lines of his wide shoulders, his thick biceps, his strong forearms. Would know those lines even if he was wearing a tent. He looks to the side and outside, and Jonny takes a long moment to trace the line of his jaw with his eyes, the slope of his nose. 

He swallows thickly, past the lump in his throat.

Fuck, he really did miss him. 

Patrick looks at him from the corner of his eye. “That coffee?”

Jonny hums, raises his cup, uses the move to take another drink from it, hide his face for a moment, long enough to write something on it that isn’t ‘lovesick puppy crying at the door for you to come back’. 

“The pot’s still fresh, if you want some.”

But instead of going to the kitchen, Patrick comes down to him. Kneels on the floor and crosses the few feet between them on his hands and knees, eyes intent on Jonny’s, a bright, sharp blue in the thin grey light. Jonny’s heart thumps hard in his chest, and he sets the mug on the floor beside him, spreads his legs open, easy, ready for him like this is all they ever want to do, all the time, make space between them for Patrick’s body. And they do, really. Jonny never truly wants him anywhere else even when he needs him to be. 

The rainy spring wind moves some curls over Patrick’s forehead and Jonny’s hand is there, pushing them back, when Patrick’s mouth closes over his, soft and warm and careful, so careful, in a way he rarely is.

Days and weeks and months of separation and longing that video calls were not even close enough to fill are in that kiss, in the soft wet press of Patrick’s lips. The first wide lick inside Jonny’s mouth is slow, tender, like he wants to remind himself what Jonny tastes like. His exhale is shaky when he pulls back and Jonny smiles at him, curls his finger in his hair over his ear and tugs a little. And he’s certain, for a split second, absolutely certain, that he’s gonna spill over, his whole body unable to contain all that he feels. 

Patrick slides his nose along Jonny’s, presses their foreheads together, and Jonny can see him swallow thickly, once, twice. He flicks the tip of his tongue under Patrick’s upper lip, a small encouragement, a helpful lick like he could tug the words Patrick wants to say out for him.

“I missed you, too,” Patrick says, rough, soft peck to Jonny’s lips with his eyes closed tight almost in pain and another hard press of his forehead. “Fuck, Jon, I—”

*

Jonny fucks him right where they are. 

Fucks him in the stretch of floor between the living room and the kitchen. Drags a blanket off the couch to put under Patrick’s knees, and tugs his sweats mid-thigh when Patrick produces their bottle of lube from the pocket of his hoodie. 

“Woke up wanting your nut in me,” he says with a lazy tongue-between-teeth smile, eyelids fluttering shut when Jonny gives his hole a hard rub, and then, more gasped out, “Thought you might bend me over the couch, but this works too.”

Jonny’s already breathing hard, hands demanding and clumsy as he lubes up two fingers and spits on Patrick’s asshole to open him up like that, while he’s on all fours. None of the quiet softness of their kiss is left, just that urgency again, like he might not get another chance to do this.

“Gonna eat it out of you after,” he says, spreading slick over his cock. It twitches in his grasp when his words are met with a groan, the heavy drop of Patrick’s head between his shoulders, then his forearms to the floor. 

“Don’t swallow,” Patrick says, and it comes out pained and breathy. “Wanna taste it too.”

“Shit, baby.”

The wind picks up and brings in another waft of heady smells. They mix in Jonny’s nose with the scent of Patrick's skin and he wonders for a quick moment if he’ll always think of this when Spring comes around. Of Patrick’s ass in the air and the pinked-up, wet center of him wanting Jonny in. And of taking him from behind with a long, slow stroke while they’re both mostly dressed and the rain is falling outside and he can see Patrick’s face in the reflection of the glass, his mouth red and open when he lifts his head, catching Jonny’s eyes and gasping with a groan as Jonny sinks all the way in. 

Jonny stops. 

His heart’s beating so fast he feels like he’s run a marathon. He shakes, overwhelmed and unprepared. Covers Patrick’s back with his body, arms around his chest. Buries his face in the fabric of Patrick’s hoodie.

“You okay, baby?” Patrick says and there’s gentle laughter in his voice, and a hand in Jonny’s hair, blunt fingernails scratching at his scalp.

“Just give me a sec,” Jonny mumbles, but rocks forward, gets Patrick good. “You were too far.”

Patrick doesn’t reply, just tugs at Jonny’s hair. Tugs harder when Jonny doesn’t move, and again until he catches on, moves as little as possible but enough to catch Patrick’s mouth in a wet sideways slide, more messy tongue than kiss.

“Hands on the glass,” he says, rough and wet. “Wanna get you right.” And Patrick listens, braces himself against the door while Jonny wraps his arms around and holds his shoulders from underneath to start fucking him with quick-sharp thrusts not unlike the way Patrick fucked him, both of them unwilling to pull out once they’re in.

Patrick’s hands are leaving smears over the glass. Soon enough it’s his face too, forehead and mouth, and Jonny thinks he won’t wash it for a while. Thinks it as he keeps the rapid fire of his hips going, whole body moving hard over Patrick’s, pushing them across the floor. But he can’t stop. Can’t slow down. Just wants to be inside the heat of his body and hold him close so that he’s all he can smell and see and feel. 

“Fuck,” Patrick pants. “Oh, baby. Fuck, fuckfuckfuck.” 

Even through the hot-clench of his body, Jonny still feels the twinge of the ache Patrick’s cock left in him, lighting up his spine, says, “Wish I could have your cock in me and still do this.” 

Patrick laughs, puts his hands flat on the door and pushes them back from it a little, gets himself some space to wrap his fingers in Jonny’s hair again. “Would get you good,” he says. “Milk you fucking dry right inside me.”

It’s impossible but he wants it. Wants Patrick so damn much he wishes he could have everything, all of him, in all ways, all at once, and maybe then it’d feel like enough. 

*

He does eat his nut out of Patrick’s ass, as promised. Keeps it in his mouth and lies on his back afterwards, Patrick over him, a welcome heaviness to keep him tethered, keep him from flying off out of his skin. 

“Gimme,” Patrick whispers, before kissing Jonny sloppy. And Jonny wraps his arms around him, holds him close until both their faces are messy, and he doesn’t know who swallowed what.

“You’re fucking nasty,” he whispers after into the skin of Patrick’s cheek, teeth scraping the stubble lightly.

“Lies.”

“You jizzed over the window.”

“You’d lick it if I asked you to.”

*

The rain stops while they’re still lying on the floor, pants and underwear around their knees, dicks soft and spent. Jonny should probably cover himself, but he’s also pretty certain his ass is stuck to the floor, and his back will let him know just how much of a fucking idiot he is the second he moves.

“The couch might have been a better idea,” he says to the ceiling.

Patrick snorts and rolls to the side, gets his sweats back up. There’s a groan, the distinctive noise of a joint popping, and then Patrick’s back, dropping himself half over Jonny’s chest with absolutely no regard for Jonny’s silent plight.

“Ow, fuck. Jesus,” Jonny whines, but his hand is already moving, fingers sinking in Patrick’s hair. 

“Definitely too old for floor sex,” Patrick says, chin resting on his fist.

“I’m not too old for anything,” Jonny grumbles. 

“Course not, babe.”

Jonny rolls his eyes, but shifts his body with a grimace, nudges Patrick with his leg until he can get it under him and Patrick’s back between his thighs and helping him tug his underwear back in place. He holds himself up this time, forearms beside Jonny’s head, and looks down at him, lifts a hand to trace Jonny’s cheekbone with his fingertips, his eyebrow, thumb sliding over his bottom lip. 

Jonny stares back, reaches in turn for him, skims the purple skin under his eyes, his mouth. Patrick’s tongue peeks out to lick at his fingertips, a small quirk of a smile, enough to deepen his laugh-lines. It’s a kick to his heart, and Jonny has to pull him down with a hand at the back of his head. Has to catch his mouth with his, chest full to the brim with everything he feels for this man. This beautiful, infuriating man he can barely be apart from without missing him like a limb, like something inside him isn’t fully in place until he’s close once more. Until Jonny can look up from whatever he’s doing and see him across the room. Wake up in the middle of the night and hear him quietly breathe beside him. Turn his head when they’re watching TV and watch him laugh, bright and wide, the most beautiful smile Jonny’s ever seen. Until he can touch him, and hold him, kiss him, and fuck him. Until he’s in Jonny’s orbit and Jonny’s in his, and everything feels in balance and complete and possible. 

Outside, sharp and clear for them to hear, the cries of geese coming home.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm allthebros on tumblr if you wanna say hi and read all the fic pieces I never post here <3


End file.
